


First Do No Harm

by lazarus_girl



Series: Brittana Week 2013 [4]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-13 07:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The course of what seems like just another ordinary shift at Lima Memorial Hospital for Santana Lopez and the other interns is altered completely by an event no one is prepared for. By the end of the day, Santana is left questioning the true nature of her ‘no strings’ relationship with fellow intern Brittany Pierce.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“This is Brittany’s fault.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	First Do No Harm

**Author's Note:**

> AU. An obscenely late entry written for day seven of [Brittana Week](http://brittana-week.tumblr.com) (AU). Inspired by years of watching _ER_ , _Grey’s Anatomy_ , and lots of other medical dramas in between. I had a lot of fun putting different characters into this space, and trying out different dynamics in terms of pairings and friendships outside that of Brittany and Santana. Click [here](https://24.media.tumblr.com/5593c398c88dc3a29907eb38e6bcbb82/tumblr_n3ops0iBOk1txkikoo5_500.png) to see the accompanying art. Thank you, as ever, to [@cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

 _“In a world of destruction one must hold fast to whatever_  
_fragments of love are left, for sometimes mosaic can be more_  
_beautiful than an unbroken pattern.”_  
– Dawn Powell, _The Locusts Have No King_.

***

This is Brittany’s fault.

It’s Brittany’s fault that she, Santana Lopez, daughter of world-renowned surgeon Andrade Lopez, is benched in the middle of a very long shift, stuck doing busy work instead of being in the emergency room. Instead of practising actual medicine, doing good, and saving lives like they sell it in the guidance counsellor’s office and the college brochures, she’s sitting in a draughty hallway on an old gurney, back against side of a vending machine, trying to decipher Dr July’s spider scrawl intelligibly enough to complete all her charts. Every. Single. One.

This is the place where she and all the other interns come when they’re pissed off and want to bitch about July or Schuester or Holliday and how much they all hate their lives, and boy does she hate hers right now. Trained monkeys could do this in their sleep, but apparently, she’s the intern with the neatest handwriting, so it’s her lucky fucking day.

She’s sure they’re fucking regenerating or something, because no matter how many she fills out, the pile to her left is still, _somehow_ the same height as it was an hour or so ago. It’s mind-numbingly tedious and she wishes she’d switched with Blaine so she could do sutures instead. At least then she’d be practising something useful instead of getting RSI and threatening her burgeoning surgical career. She’d hate Brittany if she could, but it’s kind of impossible. They all worked hard to get where they are, but Brittany worked harder. If the rumours are true about just how bad it was, Santana doesn’t know how she’s still standing; much less graduating from Smith in the top percentile _and_ working while she was at it. Everyone says she’s going to be as good as Holliday, if not better, when it comes to neurosurgery one day.

Until they met on the induction tour, Santana was certain that good people don’t really exist anymore, but then Brittany came along, and if she weren’t so awesome; she’d be pretty nauseating, and she’d get under Santana’s skin even deeper than Quinn _fucking_ Fabray – Dr Barbie – does, and that’s saying something. The girl is a living-breathing Lifetime movie, where she is in spite of her family, not because of it. That makes her feel guilty sometimes, because compared to Brittany; she’s had it easy. She had the idyllic childhood with summers in the Hamptons and never wanted for much. She got the best of everything, including her pick of Ivy Leagues when it came to it. She’s a walking cliché; the rich bitch with daddy issues.

Everything in her family is a competition and she was always at the bottom, as the youngest and the only girl, trying to make herself heard over five brothers who were the centre of her father’s world. For a while, she was in serious danger of pushing the self-destruct button and disappearing down the rabbit hole that is the New York social scene. It took almost ODing in some hellhole of a nightclub bathroom to get her to turn her life around. With her mother’s help, she did. She cut all her ties with New York, got clean, and went away to college like they always planned. Standing on her own two feet without her father bankrolling things, she could finally step out of his considerable shadow, and she’s never looked back.

It’s hard enough to get people to realise she’s not hanging on her father’s coat tails without incurring July’s wrath, and getting an impromptu lesson on her lack of focus and the importance of priorities into the bargain. Santana can still picture July’s face when she told her smugly that Lima Memorial prides itself on being a teaching hospital before dumping this on her from a great height and striding off in her Louboutins, snapping her fingers at people like she’s calling dogs to heel. There’s a reason why her face is tacked to the middle of the dartboard in the break room and it sure as hell isn’t because she’s their surrogate parent; all nurturing and wise like Schuester. With July, it’s tough love all the way.

Santana’s a big girl; she’s not going to let a little run in with July bother her at all, because barely a day goes by without someone getting their ass handed to them. July rides her hard, and she could cheerfully murder her and rope all the other interns in to hide the body without too much difficulty, but then Santana remembers that this is Cassandra _fucking_ July, whose papers she read all through college – devoured really, it’s kind of embarrassing when she thinks about it – who reduced her to an incoherent babbling mess the first time she saw her in the flesh on interview day. July’s a raging bitch ninety percent of the time, and a completely brilliant orthopaedic surgeon for the other ten percent, so that’s why Santana has to grin and bear it, even though she’s being made an example of. She’s worked her ass off to get where she is and make it on to July’s rotation, and sometimes it feels like all that work and all those scores don’t count for shit.

It’s the fact that she _knows_ that people are getting in on surgeries right now, and those people aren’t her. Those people are probably Quinn; so now she’ll something else to crow about when she’s done kissing Dr Holliday’s ass, because they haven’t heard enough times about how many scholarships she’s won or how she was the top of her class at Wellesley. Mike she can cut a break to, because he’s the only one who knows how to have a good time when they’re not working, and he _doesn’t_ make a big deal about Stanford, or how smart he is, even though he’s probably smarter than them all. He’s gotten her out of a few scrapes early on, and she feels sorry for the guy, because he’s got a ridiculous crush on Quinn, and she doesn’t even know he exists. If ever Santana needs a reminder why feelings are bad and relationships are even worse, she just looks at Chang’s face any time Quinn walks by.

Worse still, it’ll probably be that dumbass manwhore Puckerman and she’ll never hear the end of it. How he even graduated medical school, she’ll never know. She didn’t even know Johns Hopkins let people like him in. It’s either a statistical anomaly or he’s secretly smart and putting on an Oscar-winning performance to pretend otherwise. Either way, she’s not sure if she should be really impressed or really fucking irritated by it all, because she’s about eighty percent certain he’s banging July and half the nursing staff – Marley’s all doe eyes around him and so is that Sugar chick, but they’re both hot, so he gets a free pass on that score – so he always gets favoured.

She and Blaine are the better doctors. Fact. July doesn’t call them The Wonder Twins for nothing. It’s still weird to refer to him as ‘Dr Anderson’ and it takes all her will not to laugh every time she does. She’s known him in all his curly-haired, scruffy hipster geek glory since they met at Dartmouth and he’s the closest thing she has to family. He always tips her off about surgeries first as well as being a shameless gossip fiend, so he can pretty much have her first born at this point. In fact, if they weren’t both really, really gay – and Blaine wasn’t hopelessly in love with the radiology guy, Jesse – she’d probably marry him. She loves women too much for that, and her one and only high school boyfriend, Matt Rutherford, was just a _huge_ mistake. So since then, masquerading as Blaine’s girlfriend for every holiday and family function – because he doesn’t have the balls or the heart to tell his mother the truth – is the closest thing she’s had to any kind of long-term relationship. That’s before you add in the fact they live together, co-parent a bonsai tree called Myagi, and have shared custody of Blaine’s mangy-ass cat McCoy, which makes it seem that bit more legitimate than it sometimes feels – like when she’s staring down the bank of posed family pictures she’s included in that adorn the Andersons’ mantelpiece.

After years of being told they’re the cream of the crop, suddenly, they’re the lowest of the low; minnows in the middle of the fucking Atlantic. Most of the time, the competition between her and all the other interns is fun. It keeps her on her toes and makes her work that little bit harder to impress. She’d pretty much step over any of them to get what she wants. Well, almost all of them. She has a weakness see, and that weakness is Brittany Pierce.

Dr Brittany ‘cute-as-pie-heart-of-gold-can-charm-the-birds-from-the-trees-and-sell-ice-to-Eskimos’ Pierce is everyone’s favourite intern here at Lima Memorial. Pretty much everyone is in love with her. She’s sweet and kind and empathetic in a way Santana can’t even fathom – she sucks at feelings, it’s why she chose orthopaedics in the first place: bones and breaks are clean; bodies and organs are messy as all hell – and is the only one of them who can draw bloods from babies and senior citizens without leaving them in tears or feeling like a pin cushion. Even though she’s practiced with her a bunch of times sitting on this gurney, stabbing a syringe into an orange; the technique escapes her completely, and it drives her nuts.

If only that was the _only_ thing that drives her nuts about Brittany. Unfortunately for her and her career aspirations, it’s not. No one on this planet looks good in scrubs. Even though she gets them a size smaller on top, they’re basically just shapeless pieces of cloth, but Brittany, _Jesus_ , she makes it work. She looks like she’s in the wrong place, because she’s crazy beautiful, she looks like she should be a model for Quiksilver or Rip Curl or something like that, not walking around a hospital. Her body is insane, and her ass is pretty much the most perfect, peachy thing Santana’s ever seen, and she’s seen a lot of hot girls in her time. A lot. She took her eye off the ball for like, a minute at most, midway through reading a patient’s blood work, because that perfect ass was just _there_ , temptingly close, while Brittany stood talking with Dr Ryerson trying to swing a psych consult for this kid and get him to sign off on the meds. In her defence, it’s been a long week and she’s horny as hell. How was she supposed to look away? She chose the wrong moment to pull a Puckerman and perv, because July was right behind her, and when she bellowed her name, Santana almost jumped out of her skin.

She’s a play-hard, work-harder kind of girl, and usually she’s pretty discreet when it comes to people she’s attracted to. She doesn’t get what the fascination everyone else seems to have with knowing her business. It’s called a private life for a reason and she keeps it that way. The only person who should know about who you’re sleeping with is the person you’re actually sleeping with, not everyone and their mother. She blames Oprah and E! for this culture of oversharing. Puckerman broadcasts his life daily, in excruciating detail, standing as a cast-iron reminder of why women are a better option than men. OK, so, there can be some minuses, chief one being that women can be emotional and clingy and read significance into everything, when sometimes all she wants to do is get laid. It gets her into trouble sometimes, and it can get awkward, especially when they rock up to the emergency room or the break room expecting something more than a one-time thing.

As a result, it’s left her with a less than stellar reputation. She supposes they’d call her a heartbreaker, but she never intends to do it; she’s not nearly that calculating. People, girls, misconstrue her honesty for coldness, but she doesn’t see the point in telling lies and stringing people along just to protect their feelings. Puckerman seems to think they’re cut from the same cloth, and the more she denies it and tries to justify herself, the more he hassles her about it, questioning her endlessly about who she sleeps with and what they do – she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that sex involving two women is nothing like what he sees in pornos. He calls her ‘Ladykiller Lopez’ and maybe that’s true. She likes sex – she really likes it – and society dictates that only men are allowed to openly express sexual desire, which is complete bullshit. More than that, she knows and how to get it after years of struggling with herself and denying she liked girls at all. She’s definitely made up for lost time, but at least she doesn’t have a little black book or a stupid ass rating scale for every woman she’s ever been with. Oh, and she wouldn’t dare to claim to be in love with them like Puckerman does either.

She likes the idea of having a girlfriend, of being with someone, because she’s getting to that age where her Facebook feed is full of engagement and baby announcements, and the most she’s achieved is surviving a shift without killing someone. When faced with that, she can’t help but feel she’s failing in some way; like she’s a lesser being. The stability would be nice. Coming home to someone would be even nicer, but it’s never going to happen. She doesn’t think she’s ever really loved anyone. Love is just an idea; something abstract that’s never really applied to her. She can never make it last. People who aren’t doctors can’t understand the dedication it takes. They don’t get why you break off longstanding arrangements and have to give up doing normal things like dates and family dinners because you work the craziest hours imaginable, and sometimes it leaves you so tired that your teeth ache.

That’s why she and Brittany ended up doing what they do. They clicked pretty much instantly, and after Blaine, Brittany’s probably her closest friend even though they’re pretty much opposites in every respect. She’s always been better at making friends with guys, because girls find her intimidating – the whole hot and smart combo doesn’t usually go over well; because it’s against the natural order of things – so it came as something of a surprise. But, it’s also not a surprise at all, because Brittany’s the friendliest person she’s ever met, and she’ll talk to anyone, whether they’re the janitor or the Chief of Surgery. For those first two torturous thrown-in-at-the-deep-end months here at Lima Memorial, she doesn’t know how she would’ve coped without Blaine or Brittany. They live in each other’s pockets. When they aren’t working, the three of them hang out together. Sometimes they end up going to clubs and dancing their asses off, rolling into work in the same clothes they went out in, hooking themselves up to saline drips to rehydrate before Schuester or anyone else catches them. Sometimes, they hang out with the other interns at the bar across the street from the hospital and play pool. Lately though, Brittany’s just been coming back to their apartment, and they get drunk on cheap ass beer and stuff themselves with takeout.

Things with Brittany have progressed now. They’re much more than friends, in fact, they’re friends with copious benefits. They have a sex pact, drawn up on a napkin, while they were sitting on this very gurney in the dead of night when they were both miserable and tired and needed something other than filter coffee, Hersheys and Cheetos to get them through shift. They don’t have rules, as such, but there are boundaries: they don’t stay over for breakfast; they don’t talk about it to other people (Blaine is the only one in the world apart from them who knows, because they really couldn’t keep it a secret after a while); and if there are other people they want to see, they see them, and they don’t talk about that either (they haven’t really tested that part out yet, because, quite honestly, the sex is too good).

Brittany was fresh out of a relationship with an equally cookie-cutter boyfriend, Ryder; a candidate at the local firehouse who looked like he’d escaped straight out of a boyband. As for herself, well, she was nursing her wounds after a one-night stand with this hot EMT Elaine went sour – the girl was shaping up to be serious restraining order material – teetering on the verge of swearing off women altogether. Brittany suggested it in the same tone of voice that Blaine uses when he wants her to do the dishes or take out the trash, and Santana almost choked on her coffee. Though she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, it turns out that Brittany is far from innocent. She’s good. She’s _really_ good. Those steady hands Holliday is always singing the praises of? Well, they sure know what they’re doing, but her tongue is where the real skill is.

Santana would never willingly admit this out loud, but Brittany is the only person who’s ever been able to keep up with her sexually. Ever. Her appetitive for it is borderline ridiculous, but she has the stamina to match. She used to be a cheerleader in high school, and _fuck_ does it show. Thank God she was on the athletics team, else she’d stand no chance of keeping up. They’ve been going at it almost every day without fail as long as they can make their schedules work, and she can’t get enough. There’s no better stress reliever when she’s got July on her ass and Quinn’s doing her utmost to shoot her down at every opportunity. Brittany’s gone down on her in the break room with the shades drawn when it’s slow because it’s at that weird hour of the night when it’s really closer to day. Santana’s fucked her pretty little brains out in the on call room, metres away from July and everyone else, and none of the have the faintest clue. There aren’t many places where they haven’t been together now, even if they just make out and feel each other up in the supply closet like they’re in high school.

It’s the best thing she’s ever gotten herself involved in. With Brittany it’s easy, and comfortable and fun in a way it’s never been with other girls, because they know exactly where they stand. They both have needs and they’ve found the perfect person to fulfil them. It just _works_. There’s no judgement, no strings, no mindgames, no drama, no jealousy, no tears, and no pretence of anything more. It’s just maximum pleasure for minimum effort. They’re tuned to each other now; Santana couldn’t sleep with another girl if she wanted to. Why have hamburger when you have a direct-line to sirloin steak whenever you want it?

She won’t lie; she gets off on the buzz of it. She gets off on sneaking around and arranging it all. She gets off on the flirty texts and the longing looks, because Brittany’s just shameless with it, and there’s nothing like feeling desired – though lusted after might be more appropriate. She gets off on the snatched little moments here and there where they only have a few minutes and they’re ripping each other’s clothes off – she’s on the verge of billing Brittany for all the ruined underwear and t-shirts she’s lost along the way – and it’s greedy and graceless. Even the kissing is good and gets her embarrassingly wet. There are times when they get interrupted of course, and she feels like throwing their pagers off the roof because there’s nothing worse than that for killing the mood. Usually she can hold out, and then they end up going at it in the back of her car in the parking lot as soon as they get off shift. More and more lately, she’s having to admit defeat, because all of Brittany’s moaning and lip biting just fries her brain, and she has to go into the ladies room and finish off, because there’s no way she can stand the wait or try at concentrating for the rest of the day if she’s left hanging.

In fact, they’re meant to be meeting here right now. Her pager hasn’t gone off since July loaded her up with these charts, and there haven’t been any other texts apart from earlier in the day. She flicks through them now, smiling because they always follow the same pattern. They always start innocuously enough; playful and kind of cheesy, but hey, it gets them where they need to be so she’s not about to complain.

_Brittany: When do you get off shift, Dr Lopez?_

_Santana: Six. I think I need to brush up on my practical skills. Your hands on approach is so much better than mine._

_Brittany: It’s really quite easy. Your bedside manner has improved considerably._

_Santana: I have a very good teacher._

_Brittany: Lima Memorial is a teaching hospital, after all._

_Santana: Now I understand where it gets its glowing reputation._

Eventually, one of them usually lapses and turns up the heat, so then it’s more like sexts instead, and that _really_ works for her, even if it’s totally unprofessional to be sending that stuff back and forth during work hours. Everyone’s hooking up with everyone else, if the rumour mill is to be believed, so it’s not like they’re doing anything out of the ordinary.

_Brittany: I’ve been thinking about you all morning._

_Santana: Oh really? What about? My lightning fast diagnostic skills?_

_Brittany: Well, you were pretty amazing with that patient this morning but no. I was thinking about how much I want you._

_Santana: How much is that exactly? Ballpark._

_Brittany: Bad. Real bad._

_Santana: Supply closet bad or on call room bad?_

_Brittany: On call._

_Santana: Lunch break?_

_Brittany: No. After shift. I want a long time with you._

_Santana: Someone missed me over the weekend, huh?_

_Brittany: Don’t tease. And yeah, maybe._

_Santana: I did miss you. Maybe._

_Santana: What are we gonna do?_

_Brittany: Whatever you want as long as it involves you being naked. Everything off._

_Santana: Everything?_

_Brittany: Yes. I’m gonna reclaim every inch of you._

_Santana: Fuck, that’s hot, B. I love your hands on me._

_Santana: And your mouth and your tongue._

_Brittany: Jesus. I’ll kill July if you’re late, I swear. Your ass is mine, Lopez._

_Santana: Nope, your ass is mine, sweetheart!_

_Brittany: Gladly._

_Brittany: God, I want you inside me so bad._

_Santana: It’ll be worth the wait, babe. Trust me. Just a few hours and I’m yours._

_Brittany: Soon as that clock hits six. I’m there. Our usual place._

Well _shit_ she’s worked up reading that back now.

Brittany’s never late, and she never breaks a promise. They pinky swore on their deal, and they haven’t gone back on it since. Still, it’s entirely possible that Holliday has her on one of her famous research errands, making her find some obscure case study so Brittany’s stuck reading her own body weight in textbooks somewhere. She went back to visit Blaine’s family in Bloomington over the weekend, and it’s the first time she and Brittany have had any time apart in months, so she’s hanging out for it now.

There’s fifteen minutes to go, so she picks up speed, checking over her last chart, flexing her fingers to lessen the ache of writing for so long. She has to walk back to July’s office and drop these off, so she’ll probably end up being late herself. July has a knack of bitching her out at the least opportune times, but Brittany seems to find it hilarious when she rocks up, seething and cursing July to high heaven. Still, it makes the first few minutes of foreplay even hotter than normal. Nothing like a little anger to stoke the fires of passion, or whatever it is they say. Maybe Santana should thank her one day.

She takes the short route back, throwing a wink at the cute pharmacy girl when she cuts through there, smiling at her when she blushes. The emergency room is total chaos, and second she’s down there, she wants to get in on some of it. There’s been a shooting of some kind. Looks like a gang thing, because the place is crawling with cops. Schuester is right in the middle of it all, Mike and Quinn with him alongside some other residents and Dr Ryan. Blaine’s waving her over with that gleam in his eye that says there’s something weird or cool or gross or all of the above unfolding. Fuck July, she’s gonna put these charts back, and at least have a look at what’s going on before she splits to meet Brittany.

“Lopez, are those my charts?” July purrs from Santana’s left, hand on her hip. “They’d look much better on my desk.”

“They are,” Santana nods, keeping eye contact because July loathes it when people don’t look at her. “All done. They just need your signature, and they’ll be there.”

“Well, well, you actually followed my instructions! Wonders will never cease!”

Santana looks away, resisting the urge to scream when July laughs, because she’s obviously mocking her. Respect works both ways, and she’s not feeling it right now.

“I’m impressed. You went off in such a petulant huff I thought you’d give up after the first ten! I like you. You stand your ground and commit. It’s an admirable quality in a surgeon. Makes for good clinical judgement.” July smirks. “Keep that fire in your belly. It makes you hungry, and hunger makes you work harder,” she continues, tapping at Santana’s stomach. “Told you I’d make you go and do something useful. Go and find your curly-mopped little twin. He’s got separation anxiety.”

Santana stays silent, freaked out by the invasion of her space, watching as July walks off, catching up with Dr Corcoran down the hall, looking at the chart she’s carrying, not sure what to say because there seems like no right answer. If she thanks July, she’s a suck up, if she’s gives her a piece of her mind, Santana risks more of the same tomorrow, and there’s no way she can handle that.

With a sigh, she leans against the nurses’ station, stacking up July’s charts ready to take them into her office while checking the board to see what room Brittany’s meant to be in, because she’s now officially off shift. Except, her last patient is still that kid she got the consult for. Brody Weston. He’s been in and out of here pretty frequently in the last couple of weeks. According to the board, she’s still with him, it hasn’t been cleared, and it’s always cleared because Sugar’s really efficient, and so is Brittany. She always makes sure they’re discharged or at least referred.

This isn’t adding up. Santana looks around to see if she can spot her, but there’s no sign, and now the gunshot guy is being wheeled away, and Marley’s coming back over to the desk, so she tries to look less concerned.

“Hey, have you seen Dr Pierce?” she asks, keeping her tone light.

“No,” Marley’s brows furrow, and she checks the board herself. “I’m sure that patient was cleared. I haven’t seen her for a while.”

“I passed the break room, she’s not there.”

“Dr Holliday isn’t in surgery either, she’s on a conference call,” Marley replies, looking at the computer screen in front of her.

“No problem. I’ll go check in exam six. She’s probably still sitting with the patient.”

“Psych take an age, and you know how she likes to see stuff through,” Marley shrugs, distracted when the phone rings.

Santana turns away, and then back again. “If she comes looking for me, just page me, OK? Would you mind dropping those into July’s office for me?” she gestures to the charts with an apologetic smile.

Marley puts her hand over the receiver, mouthing a ‘sure’ and Santana nods her thanks.

“You’re an angel, Marley Rose. You know that?” Santana points at her, smiling. Marley shakes her head, blushing furiously.

Sure enough, the lights are still on, but when she cranes to see through the viewing window, there’s no one in the bed. In fact, there doesn’t look there’s anyone in there at all. She’s just about to turn away when something catches her eye. It’s a flash of red. It’s … blood. There’s a pool of blood. She presses her body closer into the door, hand hovering over the handle because someone’s obviously hurt, but when that Brody kid came in, he was combative, thrashing around all over the place, so she doesn’t want to take any chances. Taking a breath, she pushes down on it, and slowly opens it, half expecting to find Brody curled up in a ball in corner, like she’s seen so many times before.

This isn’t like all those other times. There’s no sign of him anywhere.

For a few moments, it feels like her brain is lagging, like those satellite delays when they talk to astronauts from space, because she can’t take in what she’s seeing. Her eyes follow the blood, settling on a body. A familiar body. Brittany. It’s Brittany, pale and gasping, the shape of Santana’s name forming on her lips.

“Oh Jesus, Britt.”

Finally, all the pieces fit, and all those hours of training and anatomy lessons and images from textbooks flood into her mind, kicking her into gear. Brittany’s been stabbed, lying here bleeding out and no one even came to make sure if she was OK. Santana rushes over to her, sinking to her knees. Her eyes darting up and down Brittany’s body, checking for entry and exit wounds but, _fuck_ there’s so much blood she can barely see anything at all.

“San –” Brittany struggles to say, hardly able to lift her head.

She’s been here a long time.

“No, don’t try and talk …stay still.”

She keeps her voice calm and even, but her hands betray her, shaking when steps over Brittany, settling behind her and giving her something to rest against. The call button is too high to reach now, so she just yells, summoning all her strength.

“Hey! I need help in here! Right now!”

Quinn’s the first to rush in, eyes wide and blinking back shock for a second.

“What the hell?!” she exclaims, reeling.

“I just found her like this. I don’t know,” Santana shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

She puts her hand over Brittany’s where it rests on her stomach, trying to keep pressure because that’s where all the blood seems be coming from, and Brittany’s not strong enough.

Quinn drops to her knees, mouthing at her to ‘keep pressure,’ and grabbing for gauze and ripping off the wrapping, unfurling it so they can pack the wound together. She watches as Quinn takes a breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and, Santana knows that she’s Dr Fabray again instead of Quinn, seeing the switch flip right in front of her eyes.

“Alright. OK,” she says, looking down at Brittany and smiling that sweet smile Santana’s always seen her give to her sickest patients, like she’s Florence Nightingale, come to rescue them. “Santana and I are gonna fix this. We need you to stay really still.”

“It hurts … I’m cold,” Brittany says, slowly, looking up at Santana. The light in her eyes is fading.

Dread settles in Santana’s stomach, but she pushes it away. They all know what’s happening.

“It’s gonna be fine. I promise you. You’re gonna be OK,” she blinks back tears, forcing herself to focus. Brittany can’t see her lose it. “Right Quinn?”

Quinn replies with a quick, “Sure,” nodding to cover her surprise because the only words they’ve ever said to each other are thinly-veiled insults. “I need more help in here! Multiple stab wounds! They’re losing a lot of blood!” Quinn yells again, and Santana hears the panic. They both know that it’s bad. Brittany has to be heading for a quarter of volume loss, maybe more.

Puckerman runs in through the now open door, yelling, “Holy _fuck_ ” when he sees them, and then “Schuester!” as he barrels off down the hall.

Within seconds, Puckerman’s back, with Schuester, and July and Holliday and other doctors and nurses they’ve never even seen before, all crowding in before they know it. Suddenly it’s not quiet in the room anymore, it’s full of people and noise, but she just focuses on Brittany, knowing she needs to stay calm and keep Brittany alert while they all figure out what the hell happened to her. After a while, she doesn’t see anyone else’s worried faces as they gather outside, and doesn’t hear Holliday, July, and Schuester barking out instructions, while the nurses scatter for supplies, and suddenly, Sugar’s to her right, cutting Brittany’s scrub top and t-shirt to free them so she can be worked on.

Quinn moves away when July comes closer, talking and not talking to her with looks and glances. July’s hand covers Santana’s and they make eye contact; her expression unreadable before she gently lifts Santana’s hand away.

“Don’t you _dare_ die on me Pierce!” July snaps, adamant. Santana’s seen her fight for people in surgery. She’s as stubborn as they come.

“I won’t have it Brittany, you hear?” Holliday pipes up. “You only just got on my damn rotation!”

“Talk to her,” Schuester says, softly, looking Santana right in the eyes. “Talk to her.”

Suddenly, it dawns on Santana that Brittany could die here, right in front of her in this very room, thousands of miles away from her foster parents in Long Beach. She remembers something that Schuester told them about final minutes being important, that people should go with a good memory in their heart. At the time, she thought it was just another dose of his sentimental bullshit, but now she gets it. She gets why he’s so fixated on treating the person as well as their symptoms. It matters. They matter. They’re important to the people that love them. Brittany’s important to … all of them.

“Tell me about Long Beach, Britt. You said we’d go right? Road trip it.”

“Yeah … it’s pretty … you’d like it.”

“I bet the weather’s good. Isn’t it? And the waves?”

Her voice is quieter now, her breathing shallow. “Uh-huh.”

“You’re gonna teach this city girl how to surf, aren’t you? Promise me you won’t laugh when I wipe out?”

“I … promise.”

Santana glances up at Schuester, he’s nodding at her, but it doesn’t make it any easier. She’s not good at this stuff. She’s not good at reassuring patients and comforting them. She never knows what to say, and whatever it is, it’s never enough. That’s Brittany’s department. Everything she’s learned tells her that empathy is a bad thing, and it means you won’t be a good surgeon because when you’re cutting them open they’ve become a real person to you, with a life and a family who feels things and places all their trust in you, instead of just a body to fix. Empathy means she still remembers the guy whose fractured vertebrae she helped to fix last week has the cutest baby daughter you’ve ever seen, and his wife is his high school sweetheart, and she has no idea how they’ll cope. Empathy means that she wants to tell Brittany the truth now. The truth she holds back every time they’re together.

But she can’t. She just _can’t_ because she’s in a room full of people and it’s too much. Brittany’s fading as they lift her carefully on to the gurney, and everything in Santana is screaming at her to do it, to say those three little words, but they won’t come, and she’s left scrambling, slipping and sliding to get her footing in the blood, rushing to catch up as they wheel Brittany away towards surgery. Santana catches hold of Brittany’s hand when it reaches for hers, and she squeezes hard, holding on until the very last moment. The cops from before are still there, radio mics blaring, saying they’ve found someone in the hospital grounds, but it all goes over her head. She hears it, but she doesn’t hear it, fixed to the spot, watching until the gurney is tiny, and then it hits her. Hard.

She, Santana Lopez, is hopelessly in love with Brittany Pierce, and might never get to tell her.

“Santana, are you OK?”

She knows that Blaine is standing in front of her, face etched with concern, and on the inside, she’s practically screaming at him about what just happened. That Brittany, that beautiful, beautiful girl who means the world to her, got stabbed, and there’s so much blood and the wounds are deep, and she doesn’t know what she’ll do if she dies on that table. The words are there, but she can’t say them. There’s not enough air in her lungs. She looks down at the floor and then at herself, blinking back tears, her throat closing up. Brittany’s blood is all over her. She’s covered in it, like something from _Carrie_ and suddenly, she can’t breathe she can’t focus and it’s too much to handle.

The only thing she can do is run, so she does, ignoring Blaine when he calls after her, crashing into one of the trolleys before she stumbles into the ladies room. Blaine rushes in, and wheels around in front of her trying to pull her into a hug, but she pushes him away clawing at herself madly, trying to get her scrub top off, tears streaming down her face.

“Get it off me! Get it off!” she screams, in a voice that sounds nothing like hers.

“I got it,” he says, slow and careful, pulling off her top and the shirt under it at once, throwing it them to the side, so she’s just left in her bra and scrub pants, but can still feel the blood on her skin; faint marks left behind. She feels like going into one of those decontamination showers, and scrubbing herself clean, but she’s pretty sure she’ll never feel that way again.

“It’s gone. It’s gone. You’re gonna be OK.We’re gonna clean you up. Brittany can’t see you like this. I’ll help, you don’t have to do anything. Just let me. Wonder Twins, right?” he smiles weakly, his voice giving out. She looks down, seeing that he’s grabbed clean mismatched scrubs from the store, they’re the same colour of blue the residents wear. She nods mutely, hugging herself. Her mind and her heart racing, she tries to calm herself, and steady her breathing, but she can’t get enough air, and she’s starting to hyperventilate.

Blaine balances the scrubs on the sink nearby and closes the gap between them, holding her still by the shoulders and catching her gaze so she’s forced to look up. “Take some breaths for me,” she swallows, trying her best to follow his instructions. “That’s it. Nice and easy. In and out.”

She stands there, utterly still, frozen and useless as her world shrinks to listening for one breath and the next. She doesn’t fight him; she just lets him carry on. He moves her towards the sink, holding her hands under the tap and washing them for her, soaped and rinsed twice, like they’re prepping for surgery. Then, he takes a wad of paper towels, wetting some to clean her torso and her face, using the others to dry her. It feels like she’s watching herself from above, like it’s all happening to some other girl who looks a lot like her. As soon as he starts to undress her, working away until she’s down to her socks and underwear, and those bloodied scrubs have disappeared from view, she breathes easier. When it comes to getting the clean ones on, he’s careful and gentle like she’s seen him be with the patients on geriatrics, like he’s terrified she’ll break something if he breathes on her too hard or moves any of her limbs too quickly.

“There,” he announces, quietly, letting her hair drop from his hands. She blinks, and suddenly it feels like she’s back in her own skin again. “All done. Dark blue looks good on you.”

He’s trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t really work. She looks down at herself again, now dressed in ill-fitting scrubs, it and just makes things worse. Her stomach lurches, and before she knows it, she’s sobbing hysterically, retching into the sink and Blaine is holding her hair out of the way with one hand and rubbing her back with the other in case she throws up, just like he has hundreds of times before.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” he soothes.

The feeling goes as quickly as it came, but she’s still left guzzling water from the tap trying to rinse out the bad taste that’s lingering there. When she steps back, letting out a long, shuddering breath, Blaine dabs at her mouth with another paper towel, brushing away the remnants of tears with his thumbs. She folds completely, and they end up in a heap on the floor. She gives in to it finally, clinging to him as she cries, letting herself be held and soothed in a way she hasn’t been since she was small.

“Blaine, she can’t die …. She can’t. I can’t call her mom, I can’t tell her … ” she chokes out, between sobs.

“You won’t have to. She’s stronger than she looks,” he assures, stroking her hair.

“I can’t lose her. I can’t,” she pulls away from him slightly, shaking her head. “I love her, Blaine … I’m in love with her.”

“Oh honey. I know,” he says, smiling even though there are tears in his eyes. “I knew it from the moment you met. I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.”

She tries to reply, questions forming and dying, unsaid, and all she can do is cry, letting him pull her close and rock her, shushing and soothing like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever taken care of. She cries out of relief, because the truth is out, but mostly, she just cries, because she might never get to say any of that to the person who really needs to hear it.

After a while, Blaine coaxes her out of the bathroom, and they go on autopilot, ending up outside the operating room and wait. They’re not the only ones. All the other interns are waiting too, and they just nod sadly when she and Blaine round the corner. Quinn and Mike are sitting together, and it looks like she’s been crying too. He passes her a tissue from his pocket to dry her eyes. Puckerman is pacing, arms folded, practically wearing a hole in the linoleum and muttering to himself.

They’ve sat here before with parents and other relatives, trying to console and reassure as best they can, but this is different, and no one’s brave enough to say anything. Santana sits in farthest chair, because it’s closest to the operating room. Blaine sinks down into the one next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. She wants to be able to see Schuester before he can see her. They’ve all readied themselves for that moment, when they have to deliver the worst news anyone can hear. You talk differently, you hold yourself differently. She’ll be able to tell.

It’s a long time before he emerges, and they’re all sitting together when he does. It takes him even longer to speak, so Puckerman jumps in and speaks for them all.

“So, what’s the deal? She made it, right?”

Quinn lets out a strangled little sob, and Santana thinks she might actually throw up this time. She holds her breath, turning into Blaine’s side, clinging to him tightly.

“She made it through,” Schuester confirms, measured and cautious. “It’s early days, and she’s got a long night ahead of her, but it looks good.”

There’s a collective sigh of relief, and Puckerman cheers, punching the air, patting Schuester on the back. Finally, Santana’s brave enough to look at him through bleary eyes, and he just nods his head. Those kind Schuester eyes glistening with tears too. She wants to hug the life out of him and thank every saint she knows because if Brittany was anywhere else, in any other hospital, Santana would be making that call to Long Beach.

“She lost a hell of a lot of blood, Santana,” he says, sombre. “If you hadn’t found her when you did she wouldn’t have survived,” he shakes his head, folding his surgical cap on itself, worrying it between his fingers. “Minutes is all she had. Minutes,” then he turns his attention to Quinn and says, “Good work.”

With that, Schuster walks away, and there’s collective sigh as they all realise how close they came to losing her. Yes, this hospital makes them competitive and ambitious, but at the end of it, they’ve still grown close. They’re friends, friends who love each other, hate each other, and love to hate each other. Brittany says they’re the closest thing they have to family when they’re away from their own, and today is proof of why she’s right. They all look at each other, nodding in acknowledgement, as if they all came to the same conclusion at once.

Blaine hugs Santana again, kissing her atop the head. Over his shoulder, she can see Mike and Puck doing that weird secret handshake backslapping man hug they always do. When she looks to her left, and sees Quinn staring down at her shoes, Santana reaches for her, pulling her into her hug. Quinn gasps in surprise, stiff in her arms at first until she lets herself relax.

“Thank you,” Santana whispers, mostly into Quinn’s hair, and Quinn just squeezes her that little bit harder.

“Hey,” Mike calls, pointing towards the operating room doors. “They’re bringing her out.”

When the she’s wheeled towards them, everyone watches in silence. She looks so tiny and pale and fragile, oxygen mask on her face. Santana doesn’t even have to ask Blaine if they’ll stay, or even if he’ll follow her when she gets up. He’s there at her side, and Quinn, Mike and Puckerman are following too, holding open the doors and clearing the way.

When they reach Brittany’s room, waiting for the nurses to finish making her comfortable, there’s a sudden primal wailing in the distance, and Santana turns, following the sound, coming face-to-face with Brody, handcuffed, wild-eyed, fighting against the two cops restraining him, all three flanked by hospital security. His hospital gown covered in Brittany’s blood. Her immediate instinct is to run at him, to knock him out cold or do to him what he did to Brittany and leave him to suffer, but she feels Blaine’s hand on her shoulder, and Quinn fixes her with this look, shaking her head warningly. When she turns back to look, the hall is empty. He’s gone.

Now they’re playing another waiting game, all arranged around Brittany’s bed in the ICU, sprawled on chairs, sipping on drinks from the coffee machine as they listen to the steady beep of her monitors. They watch, and wait, checking her saturation levels and double-checking when the nurse comes in to check her stats. They help out later on when it gets busy again. Mike, Quinn and Puckerman help out the night shift, while she and Blaine stay, switching the bags saline bags when they run out and putting up transfusion after transfusion.

No one needs to ask if they’re going to go home. If the situation was reversed, and they were in that bed, barely hanging to life, Brittany would stay, because she’s like that. She cares, too much maybe, and she’s fiercely loyal. Santana can’t help but think that both those qualities left her vulnerable today. Brody’s unstable, and even though she’s angry – because there’s no way Brittany deserves this – she can’t blame him. It’s not his fault. Not really. It’s his illness that made him behave that way. They failed him. They failed Brittany too, and whatever happens, none of them will be the same again.

Eventually, they settle, Mike reading a research paper that Holliday wrote, Quinn marking out passages in a textbook with a highlighter pen. Puckerman listens to his iPod, the tinny sound of the bass quietly streaming out from his headphones, and it’s weirdly comforting. Blaine just sits with his arm around her, his glasses off, hooked into the pocket of his scrubs and they gaze out of the window, watching cars. Ambulances. and people come and go. Each time Santana looks up, the sky is a little brighter. Each time she looks over at Brittany sleeping, hair fanned out on the pillow, she wants to climb into bed with her and just hold her and kiss away all the pain she sees flickering across her features from time to time.

At some point, she must’ve drifted off to sleep herself, because she hears someone calling her name in this weak, broken little voice, and it takes all her energy to force her eyes open. When she does, she realises she’s alone, all the others have gone. It takes her a few seconds to focus, and far too long to realise that it’s Brittany who called out to her.

“Britt,” she says, drowsily, tilting her head and studying Brittany to see what’s changed overnight. “You scared the shit out of me, you know that? I’m so glad you’re OK.”

“You stayed until breakfast,” Brittany smiles weakly. “You broke our rule.”

“I did,” Santana, replies, scooting her chair closer to the bed. “I think it’s more of a guideline really.”

She stretches, her yawn turning into a grimace when she feels stiffness in her neck from sleeping in a weird position, and she reaches around to rub at it, throwing off the blanket she’s wrapped in, surprised to see a note drop to the floor. When she bends to retrieve it, she sees that it’s from Blaine, written in his atrocious scrappy hand:

_Went to get us breakfast before we’re back on shift. Chief Sylvester gave us an hour to get ourselves together, and July said you’re off chart duty. Maybe she’s not Satan after all? I hope you and Britt are OK. She looked fine when I left; I made sure they topped up her morphine._

_Love you._

_B xxx_

“Could you?” Brittany croaks out, gesturing to the water jug on the nightstand, “I’m so thirsty.”

She whimpers in pain when she tries to sit up. Somehow Santana feels it too.

“Hey, hey, don’t move, you’ll pull your stitches.” Santana holds up a hand, reaching for the glass to pour some water, dropping in the straw that’s next to it. “Let me.”

Brittany just smiles in that same sad way, as if she’s remembering what happened all over again. Santana puts the straw to Brittany’s lips angling it so she can drink without moving too much.

“Slow down, baby,” she cautions, worried that Brittany’s drinking too fast and gulping in too much air. The ‘baby’ slips out before she realises, and she curses herself inwardly. “Little sips,” she blurts, trying to cover it. “You done?”

Brittany nods and says a quiet “Thank you.”

Santana moves back and puts the cup on the nightstand, letting her rest. “You’re welcome,” Santana shrugs, sitting down so she feels less awkward. “It’s just a drink. Nothing special.”

“No, not for that. Dr July told me what you did,” Brittany begins, quietly, looking down at the bed. “She said you found me and got help. That you stayed with me.”

“Yeah, I did,” Santana swallows hard, nervously reaching for Brittany’s hand and sliding until their fingers are interlaced. “But Quinn was there too. Any of us would’ve helped. We’re your friends, Britt … We’re doctors. It’s instinct. I just did what I had to do.”

“Maybe. But, I don’t see anyone else here now. You could’ve left with them.”

“I couldn’t go home without knowing you’d be OK,” Santana glances away, looking toward the window again. “I tried to stay awake but –”

“It’s OK,” Brittany says and she sees a small smile form on her lips. “That colour looks good you. Dr July better watch out.”

Santana chuckles despite herself. “I have a way to go before I earn these,” she admits, looking down and tugging on her top with her free hand.

Brittany’s hand squeezes hers and it makes her turn back. The way Brittany’s looking at her is too much to take at the best of times, but now it’s like she’s looking right into her soul and she can see everything Santana’s ever thought, wished or faintly hoped for.

“It’s OK to be scared …” Brittany pauses. “I was scared too. Five times, Santana, with that knife from the break room. I didn’t think he’d stop. I was scared that I’d bleed to death in that exam room, and you’d never know –”

“Britt. Don’t,” Santana, cuts her off, pushing away the images that come flooding back.

“No, let me finish. Please?” Brittany coughs, flinching in pain. Santana gives a small nod, signalling that Brittany can continue even though she’s afraid of what she’ll hear. “I wouldn’t have gotten to tell you how I feel.”

“And …” Santana ventures, hearing her voice tremble. “How do you feel?”

“I think you already know.”

Santana smiles, because she doesn’t know what to say (but she knows exactly what to say too) feeling tears sting at the back of her eyes. The look in Brittany’s eyes is so honest and pure and she doesn’t know why it took her so long, and how she didn’t see what was right in front of her. Brittany’s it. She’s _the_ girl. She’s everything Santana’s ever wanted. It was never _just_ sex, no matter how much they liked to pretend it was. Letting out long shaky breath, she takes a risk, and stands up, leaning over the bed to press a gentle kiss to Brittany’s lips. There’s barely any pressure at all, because she’s scared of hurting her. Their mouths just brush, once, twice, and she’s about to pull away, but Brittany kisses back, soft and slow, her hand shaking as it cups Santana’s cheek. It doesn’t feel like any other time they’ve kissed. It feels new and different and achingly familiar all at once, and Santana never wants it to go away.

She’s not sure where they’ll go from here, or what it means for their deal, but at least they have the time to find out. Brittany made it through the night. They both did. It’s another day. A day she never thought they’d get.


End file.
